The crowed surged forward, a few looking back in fear, a few looking back at the precious stones. 

            Ranald watched them go, sinking back into the throne. “They move like prodded cattle and my head is a melon ready to burst. Elymas, I’m going to my chamber. I asked that you send the tonic at once.”

            “Yes, Majesty, at once.” 

            Because the King’s eyes were closed, Elymas allowed himself to smile. 

                                                                       

            The crowd was a river of confusion, pushing Mirella where she didn’t want to go. She’d intended to slip behind the gonfalon of a forgotten family named Anjhest, but all the banners were on the left wall and she was in the middle of the hall, caught between a group of gossiping ladies and a band of hungry farm hands. She shoved one way and was met with curses, she wiggled to the other was met with sharp squeals. 

            Finally, she gave up and allowed herself to be pushed into the Banquet Hall. At least here was space to breathe.

            She expected to be mobbed with questions concerning Oren Hunter but for a few curious stares, no one approached her. The fact that she was a Shivelite was keeping them at bay. Usually, the prejudice was a disadvantage; now it was a relief. Besides, the nobles weren’t interested in her opinion, they were too full of their own. As for the common folk, they were eager to be fed.